


The Trade

by kayliemalinza



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Noir, Detective Noir, Gen, Gunplay, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-16
Updated: 2013-07-16
Packaged: 2017-12-20 09:13:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/885546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayliemalinza/pseuds/kayliemalinza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a typical case for private eye Hikaru Sulu. Sure, his partner's gone missing, but that happens a lot more than you'd think.</p><p>Teaser: Kirk shoots me the sheepish grin he keeps in his pocket next to his comb. It's no good. A baby in a stroller could see he's a nervous wreck.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Trade

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Re_White](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Re_White/gifts).



> Warnings for smoking and guns (typical noir fare.) As with my other Noir piece, inspiration comes directly from _The Big Sleep_ by Raymond Chandler.

Keenser's a runt, but his intel is good. The house with the green roof is on the corner just like he said. I pick the lock by touch, keeping an eye on the street. No-one sees me but the topiary.

I'd rather case this joint with a friendly trigger at my back, but my partner slipped his leash this morning and I haven't seen him since. I figure out why as soon as I open the door. Smarts like this keep me in business, see. 

Kirk shoots me the sheepish grin he keeps in his pocket next to his comb. It's no good. A baby in a stroller could see he's a nervous wreck. His knees are shaking against the carpet and his hands are twisting above his head. Could be he's fighting pins-and-needles. I can't say. His fingers are closer to lavender than their usual honky-pink because the curtain pull is wrapped around his wrists a little tight. Or maybe the color's from the lamp. 

He's flecked all over in purple triangles like an art-deco leopard because the dame who owns this place likes lampshades with plastic crystals hanging off the bottom. She also likes laying her gun along my partner's neck, pointing straight down at his heart. The barrel looks cold. His bruises look professional.

"I thought you'd never show up," says the dame. She doesn't sound local but she doesn't sound like anyplace else, either. People like that usually have blood behind them.

"Sorry, you know how traffic is these days," I say. Enough small talk. Down to business. "Is this a negotiation, or do you just like to take things slow when you're shooting a guy?"

She bends her marsh-grass neck, shifts her mile-long legs. Her hipbones glint beneath her evening dress, pointy like the crystals on her lampshade. "That depends on you, Mr. Sulu. Are you willing to talk?" The gun taps against Kirk's clavicle. Hell knows where his shirt went. We have to tell clients up front that my partner's wardrobe counts as a daily expense.

"Yeah, I'll talk," I say. I reach easy into my breast pocket and pull out a cigarette. My favorite kind: cheap paper, rich 'baccy, garnished with a sprig from my personal window-box. Kirk rolled it for me this morning. Turns out that overgrown mouth is good for something. "You mind?" I ask.

"Not at all," says the dame. She's got a pack-a-day voice herself, and probably a matching cigarette holder for every outfit.

I strike the match against my thumbnail. "So," I say after a slow draw. A burn in the throat helps me think, wet or dry. "You know who I am. I assume my partner introduced himself."

Kirk grins out the side of his mouth. He's a hound dog, sure--but the best in the city for tracking a scent. Otherwise I'd have taken his name off the door months ago. 

"Can I get a name, lady?" I ask.

"It's Uhura," she says.

My partner quirks his right eyebrow. Alright. As far as he knows, she's telling the truth.

"Uhura what?" 

"Just Uhura." I wouldn't call it a smile, exactly, but Uhura has teeth lined up nice in rows.

I breathe slow and burn another quarter-inch of cig. "I've heard that name," I say. "As I recall, it came up during a discussion of this... lizard problem they got down at the precinct."

The cool mask flickers and for an instant I see the razored maw beneath, precise and hot. She presses the gun muzzle into the sweet spot between collarbones.

"Don't--" Kirk rasps out. "Don't call him 'lizard.' She doesn't like that."

I shrug. Words are easy. "This Spock fellow's up on some heavy charges. Everything's coming up murky, though. The DA doesn't like it. Maybe he could be persuaded to cut him loose. By an old friend, say." 

"What are the odds on that?" asks Uhura. She drawls it out, alert but comfortable. I'm sure she plays a mean roulette.

"Pretty damn certain," I say. 'Old friend' is an underbid. The DA owes us: I know his wife and she doesn't know me. I flick my ash into the cut-glass umbrella stand by the door. The carpet's pure white. I bet Uhura's particular about it. "You want a trade, right? My boy for yours?"

She pulls the gun up and Kirk sucks air, open-mouthed. "My boy for yours," she says, and strokes his jawline with the safety.


End file.
